Our gazes lock together. “The same reasons you haven’t.”
“Whatever he’s involved himself in, I have no doubt he’ll get himself out of. In the meantime, this household needs to be run, so that’s on my shoulders. Perhaps I’ll find a private investigator to find him.”
“And where would you get the money for that?”
“Alexander. He added me to the accounts, as he should, considering my role in his life.” I am fairly sure this is another of her lies.
My eyes narrow. “I don’t believe he would do that. Not with you.” He’s far too careful to entrust all that information to a woman he barely knows.
“He did.”
I was given access to his spending account years ago, only using it in emergencies. So careful. Just like him. He trusted me more than anyone, but did he trust her as well? “What is your point?”
“My point is you are a guest in my home and as such, you will give me respect or you will leave.” She turns on her heels to leave. I think she’s insane, but nevertheless, I shoot daggers into the back of her head.
I hate the manor. I hate it with a passion. All the horrible things that have happened are trapped inside these walls, waiting to come back to scare me. But no matter how much I hate this place, I’ll never surrender it to this money-digging whore. “You are not a Kingwood. You were fucked by one, bore one a son, and then discarded. Other than that, you are nothing. Get out of my quarters and don’t ever threaten me again or Alexander will deal with you.”
She visibly winces when I shout at her.
Given the way I use the term quarters so casually these days, maybe I really have become a Kingwood.
The door is slammed shut and I drop to the bed, sitting in shock. Why does she feel she can come in as if she is in charge? As if Alexander’s not coming back. However, I held my own against her. I grab my phone and call Alexander. I need to hear his voice. I need him to answer me. Come back to me, I silently beg. Just like every other time I’ve called this week, it never rings but sends me straight to voicemail. I try Cruise’s number and the same thing happens.
It’s not a victory without Alexander, and I start to question if he’s gone for good.
30
Alexander
I won’t cower; and I won’t cave to their demands. Money isn’t going to buy me out of this hellhole. Only my blood seems to suffice, and they refuse to take it. I won’t offer it to them. Not with as much as I have to live for.
Sara Jane.
I have to get back to her. She’ll think I left her. She’ll start to believe I can actually walk away from her willingly. I’ve given her so much grief; my disappearance will only deepen that pain. I couldn’t kill Connor Johnson, but I will kill the bastards who keep me here. One way or another, I’ll figure out how to do it, and there will be no hesitation. I won’t feel their loved ones’ pain or guilt. I’ll fucking kill them for causing my Firefly pain.
The closet I’m stuck in, the room with no windows and not enough space to spread my legs out, is pitch black. There’s too much time to think, to reflect, to plot in here. I should sleep, knowing I need to keep my strength, but is it day or night? My body’s clock is off.
My head pounds at times from the blunt blow I took when they grabbed me. One minute I was waiting at a light, the next I woke up on the cement floor of what looks to be a warehouse. Tied in a chair, I expected to be beaten. Isn’t that the point of going to all that trouble, or have the movies misled me?
I wasn’t beaten.
I wasn’t even touched.
No words were spoken since there was nobody there to speak. I called out, but my voice answered in an echo. Just my motorcycle and me in the hollows of some abandoned building. Someone doesn’t go to those lengths to let you sit alone. Something worse is coming.
I was right. Cruise was tossed on the floor in the middle of the night of what he said was day three of my abduction.
I wake to the sound of a creaking door to the room I’ve been in since the first night. It is too dark to know who it is. The body is lifeless, unrecognizable in the lack of light. I don’t even know if the man is dead or alive until he groans in pain. “Cruise?”
Making out the lines of the body, his hair, his eyes when they land on me, he says, “King?”
I move closer until the chain grinds into my wrists. “Fuck, Cruise. Are you okay? Are you okay?” I hadn’t felt hope until this moment, but it is short-lived. Cruise was taken and is now trapped like me.
“I don’t fucking know. I can’t feel my—” He coughs. It sounds wet, maybe blood. He lays his head on the concrete, and his breathing deepens. “They beat the fuck out of me, but you survived it, so I will.”
They haven’t touched me other than getting me here. I’m thinking now might not be a good time to tell him. I bring my knees up and lean back against the rough wall. “I have chains around me. I can’t reach you.”
Lifting his head, he looks in my direction. “Chained?” He pushes up and slides closer. “You’ve been here the whole time?”
“For the most part, yeah, but I’ve lost track of time in here.”
“You’ve been missing for over three days.”
Fuck.
“Is Sara Jane okay?”
“She’s fine. Worried, but okay.”
“Why would they kidnap you and bring you here?” A coughing fit catches his breath, and he struggles in front of me, but I can’t help. I can’t even fucking reach him. “Cruise?”
When the fit calms, he sounds exhausted. “I think something’s broken inside me.”
“Something?”
“I’m bleeding every time I cough.”
Shit. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be. I told Sara Jane I would find you.” He laughs and then cringes in pain. “Guess I did. I’m just glad you’re alive, brother.”
When he moves closer, we fist-bump. My eyes have adjusted enough to see his face. “I can’t say it’s good to see you because I can’t promise this isn’t the worst place to end up.”
“Seems pretty shitty.”
That’s not even half of it.
*
“You, Alexander, are every wish I ever made. You’re my dream come true. I’m so sorry . . . I will always come back to you.”
Her words come back to me as if the sweet melody of my Firefly said them yesterday. Maybe it was, though the hunger pangs and hair on my face probably contradicts that.
Surely it’s not been more than a few days. Cruise says ten. I’m in denial. I started counting the sunsets that peek through the cracks, but lost track when I was thrown in the closet for hours, days . . . what felt like weeks. I don’t think it’s been weeks.
“Why don’t they just kill us?” Cruise asks through swollen lips. They beat the shit out of him to get to me. He takes it.
Every night. For me.